Author's Note: In My Father's house are many mansions….I go to prepare a place for you. –John 14:2
Disclaimer: I don't own these characters. I'm just borrowing them for a while.
CLANG!
In the heart of the darkness, a fire glowed.
Clang!
No thoughts intruded, just heat and the soothing rhythm of metal on metal on metal: hammer to red hot iron, iron to anvil.
Clang!
Soft golden light fell from a kerosene lantern, and a muted red glow emanated from the forge itself, but beyond that all was shrouded in warm darkness.
Clang!
But there was no danger in the darkness. He was home. The war was thousands of miles away.
Clang!
In the violent effort, there was peace.
Clang!
The metal, as it took shape under his blows, pleased him.
Clang!
It was beautiful.
He paused to admire it a moment before plunging it into the into the tub of water at his feet. It hissed as it touched the surface of the liquid.
"John!"
The blacksmith shook as though it were he that had been dunked into the water bath. "Dad!" he gasped.
His father stood outside the circle of light, but the voice was unmistakable.
As was the tone.
John had heard it every night for nearly a week now.
"Is it really necessary for you to do that at this hour?"
A pause.
"No, sir."
Mild irritation threaded through the older man's voice. "Johnny, I told you before, you're not in Special Forces now. You don't need to 'sir' me."
A beat, then. "No," John agreed.
"You may not need to sleep, son, but other people do."
He did need to sleep.
If only he could.
"Finish that in the morning." It was an order.
John nodded silently, and the ghostly figure of his father began to move away, back towards the house.
"Dad?" his voice sounded in an awkward stage whisper.
The dark figure paused, turning back.
"I'm sorry I woke you."
An unamused snort acknowledged this apology. "Try not to let it happen again."
"I won't," John promised.
"Sure. Until tomorrow night."
The younger man bit his lip. "Goodnight, Dad."
"Goodnight, son."
John listened intently until he heard his father's footsteps retreating towards the house, then took his time about putting away his tools and banking the forge.
But in the silence of the barn, he could hear again the rising noise of a crowded Saigon bar.
Very deliberately, he blew out the lantern and settled himself on a bale of hay, his back braced against the barn wall.
To wait.
Just like every night.
For the kid to come in.
With his shoeshine box.